Cult Favorite

The summoning circle was made, the sacrificial pigs were chosen, everything was perfect for a sixteenth birthday in the Cult of Minor Evils. Everything except my makeup. I dragged the brush of lamb's blood over my lashes, trying to recall the winged eyeliner tutorial I'd watched this morning. In the video, the girl's hands moved like melted butter, creating a careful flick at the outer corner of her eye. But my hands trembled. The brush slipped. And suddenly I was left with a jagged red line streaking down my cheek. As I reached for a makeup wipe, a voice at the door made me jump.

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"If you use goat's blood, it doesn't drip. Like, swear on it." Debbie stood in the doorway, balancing a pink polk-a-dot box on her hip. She waggled her fingers, golden curls falling over her perfectly-crisp robes. "Happy b-day, sis! Need a hand?"

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"I'm fine," I grumbled, turning back to the mirror. "I like it this way." I ran my fingers over my cheek to soften the line but it smeared. It looked like a bloated mosquito had been squished on my face.

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I caught a glimpse of Debbie in the mirror as she flopped onto my bed. A neat, red flick framed her eyes. Of course. Everything Debbie did was perfection. The way she walked without tripping over her robes. Or last Summer when she talked to Satan and still wouldn't shut up about it.

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"I remember my sixteenth like it was yesterday," Debbie said, kicking her bare feet in the air. "The burning sinner-scented candles. The conga line. Everyone had so much fun following Father around." She sighed wistfully and rolled onto her back. "What song are you gonna conga to?"

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Father hadn't mentioned a conga line. "I dunno. Screams of the Damned?" 

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"That's a bop."

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I pressed my arms against my stomach to quell the fire licking at my gut. "What do you want, Debbie? Father should be here with my present any second now."

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"Ooh, open mine! Open mine!" She shoved the pink box into my lap, grinning like a shark with a fresh set of veneers. I studied the glittery letters curling across the lid: To Beatrice. Love, Debbie. "I used shattered glass for the sparkle!"

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"Cool." Debbie practically hummed with energy as I carefully removed the lid and set it on the floor. My heart sank. Inside was a set of neatly-folded, paper white robes.

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"Ta-da! I wore them on my sixteenth birthday. I thought it'd be fun to match. And there's a special surprise in the pocket."

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"I can't wear these."

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"Sure you can. I mean, it'll be kind of tight around the waist and the sleeves might be a bit long for your adorable little dinosaur arms..."

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"This isn't about my dinosaur arms!" I smacked the lid back onto the box. Then I crossed my arms into a knot because it was drafty, not because I actually cared if Debbie thought they were stumpy and weird and why was she still looking at them? 

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I took a deep breath. "Thanks. Really. I'm sure it took a lot of brain power to come up with your own hand-me-downs as a birthday present. But I've already got robes."

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"Yours are all stained from Burgers and Blood Oath night. These are vintage. Like, cult classics! Mother says you can think of me whenever you wear them. Sister bonding."

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"I don't have to listen to your mother." I shoved the box away. "Father's making me a fresh set. He should be here any minute with them."

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She shoved the box back. "Well Father approved these ones. And I don't get why you still say your mother. It's been, like, a year since Father promised all Mother's problems would go away if she married him. I call Father 'Father'."

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"Everyone calls him Father!" My voice cracked. "He's the prophet!"

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I stomped over to the door, not caring if I woke all the demons in Hell with my pounding footsteps.

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"Where are you going?" Debbie sprang up, like a puppy watching their owner leave the house.

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"To talk to Father about my robes."

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"I told you, he already approved these ones."

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"No, he didn't. We've been planning my birthday robes for years. Why would he suddenly give me yours?"

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"'Cause I asked him. I figured I'd save you the embarrassment of wearing whatever dishrag Father sewed up. Mine are made of pure spider silk. The spiders worked for nine weeks to make it. They tried to unionize too. And we didn't let them. I'm a good big sis." She beamed.

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My rage settled like a melted puddle at my feet. It was a mistake. A simple misunderstanding. When Debbie decided to butt her perfect little nose in, Father must not have realized I still wanted my birthday robes. 

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Still, an angry, growling little part of me couldn't leave until I'd wiped the proud smile right off of Debbie's face. "You're not supposed to do good things, Debbie. You're supposed to do minorly evil things. We're the Cult of Minor Evils."

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She shrugged. "Doesn't mean I can't be a good sister. Like remember those kids that used to bully you during Un-Bible Study? Remember how I snuck into their bedrooms and gave them mullets in the night? All I'm saying is that was some major minor evil."

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My cheeks suddenly burned hot. "I didn't need your help. I was fine."

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"Oh yeah?" Debbie said, raising a playful brow. "So you were just crying in the bloodletting rooms every night for fun then? Making all the night guards think we'd summoned the ghost of parties most pooped? Come on, girl. You're looking redder than the sacrificial alter. Chin up. That's what sisters are for. Helping each other even when we don't know we need it." Her eyes suddenly lit up, bright as a sacrificial flame. With an excited chirp, she pulled a glittery pink pen from the depths of her robes and began scribbling in thick, jelly ink across her palm. 

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I couldn't help but stick my neck out to look. "Are you... quoting yourself?"

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"What? It's a good one. Plus, I wanna add it to the collection later."

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I wasn't sure what collection Debbie was referring to but, frankly, it wouldn't have surprised me if she kept a collection of all her cheesiest lines. In fact, I was surprised she didn't have the whole cult praying to the demon of turning frowns upside down.

"I need to sort this out with Father," I said. I straightened my pajamas in the mirror, trying not to calculate all of the precious hours I was about to waste fixing Debbie's mistake.

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Debbie bounced over to meet me. "Ooh, an adventure! I'll go with you."

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"No," I said, slipping sandals onto my feet. "You've already done plenty enough."

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"That's so sweet. But I don't mind! Actually, I could, like, totally go for the distraction right now. Steve..." Her voice wobbled. "Steve broke up with me today. And I think he stole my bedazzled scepter. Today is, like, cursed." She caught a glimpse of my face and her eyelids fluttered. "Except for your birthday of course! That's totally gonna be the best thing ever."

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"Thanks for the vote of confidence." I tried to pull open the door, but Debbie threw herself in front of it, slamming it shut again. 

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"Bea," she said softly, as if trying not to wake a sleeping giant.

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"Oh God." I already knew what was coming.

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She took my hand gently in hers, eyes growing wide and doe-like. "You know, when I spoke to Satan, he told me to stand by the ones I love. And I know he meant stand by them so if I'm ever on the edge of a large ravine, I can push them in. But still." Her eyes bore into mine- big, glistening, a perfect coffin gray. "Let me stand by you, Bea," she whispered.

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"Are you not going to move until I say yes?"

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She thought for a moment, then hissed, "Yes."

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"Fine. Let's just sort this out before my Sweet Seventeen."

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"Yay!"

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I let her loop her arm through mine and lead us out into the compound.

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The compound was a maze of twisting, underground hallways and dead-ends. Father said it was to mislead any non-believers attempting to enter our holy abode. But I also knew that back in the day, he held one of the top scores in Pac-Man and I couldn't help but think that if you dropped a giant, yellow wheel of cheese into the compound, we might get a copyright strike.

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The whole time we walked, Debbie yapped my ear off about Steve's big heart and Steve's long eyelashes and Steve's passion for taking in all the injured squirrels that seemed to collect around him. Occasionally, a fellow cultist would pass us and say how excited they were for tonight, but their eyes never left Debbie.

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Normally, the whole thing would've made it into a very strongly-worded diary entry. But today, I tuned it all out. I had more important things on the mind, namely, my birthday robes. A perfect off-white, the color of mold sprouting on raspberries. Fabric that flowed perfectly around me like a ghostly body. And, most important of all, a vibrant pop of red trim around the sleeves. Father never let anyone wear colors other than white, but I'd been begging him for a red-trimmed robe since the day I could speak. One day, he finally cracked and said I could have a red-trimmed robe for my sixteenth birthday. Maybe he thought I'd forget by then, but that was far from the truth. In fact, I reminded him every year. "This birthday's great, but my red-trimmed robe birthday will be even better!" I wrote it on his calendar. Make dentist appointment. Sacrifice orphans. Make Beatrice's red-trimmed birthday robe. Sometimes, I even chanted it in his ear while he was sleeping, hoping maybe he'd dream up some brilliant design for it. Red-trimmed robe. Red-trimmed robe. Red-trimmed robe.

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I could see it now, heads turning as I stepped into the Sanctuary, mouths falling open in awe as their eyes fell on the neat, crimson stitching adorning my sleeves, a frenzy of whispers, "Even Debbie doesn't have a red-trimmed robe."

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But then I was seeing the ground. And then the ceiling. And then the ground again. And then a snotty, rotten-smelling pig squealing in my face.

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"Bea!" Debbie cried, running up from behind me. "Bea! I was trying to warn you! Are you okay?"

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I brushed off her help, shaking my head to try to reorient myself. 

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"Catch that sacrificial pig!" came a familiar voice from the kitchens. 

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The pig shrieked, head-butted a wall, then took off down another corridor, curly tail bouncing behind him. I would've felt bad for him, but since we were the Cult of Minor Evils and not Major Evils, we only sacrificed animals that were jerks. My throbbing head told me he was well-practiced in jerkery.

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"I'll get him, Mom!" Debbie cried heroically, taking off down the dark corner as she called, "Here, piggy, piggy, piggy."

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A moment later the steel door to the kitchens burst open and my stepmother flew out. She was in a frenzy, but that was just her natural state. She was always fussing over the state of Debbie's hair, or whether Debbie was getting her fair share of sacrifices in after-school sacrifice club. Today, she was even more of a mess than usual. Her long, curly hair puffed out in a frizzy halo around her head. Her face was beet red and blotted with sweat.

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"Debbie? Did I hear Debbie?" She panted. Her eyes fell on me. "Beatrice." She smiled, but it was a smile that never quite met her eyes. Although, her smiles rarely did. It was one of the reasons my father fell in love with her apparently. He was always going on about her beautiful, cold, dead eyes.

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"Debbie went after the pig," I said sourly, still rubbing my aching skull. Then, I felt myself brighten as I realized this was the perfect opportunity to ditch her. "Well, uh, good luck with all... that."

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I didn't make it more than two steps before my stepmother called out, "Wait!" and threw herself between me and the rest of the tunnel. Like mother like daughter.

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I crossed my arms, wondering if she was scrutinizing my dinosaur arms too.

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"It's your birthday today, isn't it, Beatrice?"  She tried on an innocent grin that didn't quite suit her. "Happy birthday."

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"Thanks."

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"I think you should cancel it."

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I blinked. "Cancel... my birthday?"

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"Yes. Well, you know, people have birthdays every year. What's one little skip-a-roo?"

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"When Debbie turned sixteen, the Jonas Brothers got to perform. And be ritualistically sacrificed."

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"Yes, well..." my stepmother sucked her teeth, peering around the corner for Debbie. Somewhere in the distance, the pig squealed ferociously and Debbie chirped, "Cool! I didn't know pigs had teeth!" 

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Satisfied, my stepmother took a slow step towards me. She drew her lips together, almost sadly. She smelled like a sickly mixture of blood and oregano. I supposed she was on kitchen duty for tonight. "That's just it, isn't it? When Debbie turned sixteen, she spoke to Satan, right in the very same robes that you'll be wearing tonight. And what will you do in those robes? Enjoy a slice of cake? Maybe partake in the Cha-Cha-Die?" She clacked her tongue. "I just don't want you to embarrass yourself, sweetie."

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I clenched my teeth together, so hard that I felt the molars crunch. "Well, I won't be wearing Debbie's robes tonight. My father made me new ones."

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"Oh, I doubt it. Your father's been on such a recycling kick lately, trying to make up for releasing all those squirrels into the nursing home, which would've only been a minor evil if someone had checked first to make sure they didn't have rabies." She shot a glance through the swinging kitchen doors, where I caught a glimpse of one of the dishwashing cultist's eyes widen as he quickly went back to scrubbing crusted dinosaur chicken nugget off of a plate. 

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"We really need that Ebay guillotine," she sighed.

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Debbie reappeared, swaddling the pig in her arms like a baby. "Got him!" The pig snuggled into the crook of her elbow, making pleasant little snoring sounds. "Aww, he'll look so cute on a stake in front of the compound." She tickled his snout with a painted fingernail.

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My stepmother shot to life, like a dead plant drinking in sunshine. "Debbie! Oh, you darling girl. Oh, you perfect, special, darling girl."

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I realized that there were tears pooling in her delicate crow's feet. And that pool quickly became a tsunami. She threw herself at Debbie, squashing the pig between them as she wept, "Such a way with animals. So very minimally evil. Such a special girl, such a special girl..." She pet Debbie's head, pushing her further into the depths of her robes.

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Debbie grinned at me from beneath her mother's chin. "Aw, group hug. Get in here, sis!" She wriggled an arm free and beckoned me forward.

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But my stepmother was gripping Debbie so tightly, I didn't think there'd be room for me even if I was as thin as a sheet of the Un-Bible: Recycled Edition.

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I backed away. "I've gotta talk to Father."

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"Yes," my stepmother said, as if suddenly remembering I was there. "Yes! Talk to him. He's in the sanctuary. Talk to him about what I said."

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"Yeah... thanks." As I turned away from the Stepmother of Christmas Future to head to the sanctuary, a part of me hoped maybe my stepmother would accidentally smother Debbie in her suffocating hug, or at least hold her there until after my birthday ceremony was over. But a second later, Debbie was back at my side, flattening her frizzy curls. 

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"Don't you just hate how the more love in the hug, the more mess in the hair?"

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"Yeah. Totally." I said, suddenly aware of how silky smooth my own hair felt. My ears prickled at the sound of an uncapping pen. "Don't write that one down."

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"I'm not!" Debbie insisted, but I heard her whispering the words to herself as she scribbled away.

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"Remember what I said, Beatrice!" My stepmother started towards us, her voice ringing down the tunnel. But the pig, free from Debbie's magic touch, began circling and head-butting the walls again. Someone from the kitchen called for my stepmother in a gruff voice. Her fingers stretched towards Debbie for just another second before she swallowed the rest of her tears and set off after the pig.

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I never quite got used to the sanctuary. When I was little, Father used to say the place was unsettling because it was haunted by the vengeful souls of a century's worth of gruesome sacrifices made by my ancestors. But when I got older, I realized it was probably just a bit drafty. Still, a shiver always gripped my heart when I first stepped through the large double doors inside.

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Father stood in the center of the room- a shadowy, hulking figure hunched over a long table. Stained glass windows cast gloomy rainbows over his form. His hands moved like a piano player's, plucking long, thin ligaments from the dark table. A lock of greasy hair fell into his eyes, brushing the shoulder of his ornate robes. From the wet sound that followed, I figured he must've used his tongue to push it back. I could just barely make out a gleam in his darting eyes, as they swept wildly over the length of the table.

"Yes," he muttered darkly, his voice bouncing off the walls of the sanctuary like an auditory kaleidoscope. "Yes... yes!" He raised his arm and I caught a glimpse of a small, sharp blade clenched in his hand. The tip of the blade caught a beam of rainbow light for only a moment, before he brought it slicing back down onto the table.

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The lights flickered on, turning the room a bright, sunshine yellow.

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"There we are!" Debbie stood proudly by the light switch.

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Father looked up, a crooked grin spreading across his face. "My girls!" he cried, throwing his hands out over the table of small plastic bags, each tied neatly with a colorful ribbon. He set the knife down on one of the recently-cut ribbons and took a sip from his #1 Boss Man mug before gliding over to us. The long, golden sleeves of his robe brushed the ground as he walked. When I was little, I used to pluck the dust bunnies off the hem and squish them into the shape of butterflies and flowers to terrify the other children with. Now, the sleeves just collected dust.

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Debbie and I bowed as Father approached. "Your unholiness."

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Father accepted the gesture with a noogie to each of our heads. "So, I've been slaving over party favors all day, right? And you're not gonna believe this. I found mini candles on sale at Home Goods. Perfect for demon summoning. And they're lavender-scented."

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"I love lavender!" Debbie squealed.

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"I hate it," I grumbled.

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Father clapped his hands together. "You know what? Now that you're here, I can practice my birthday sermon! Debbie, grab the box by the blood-letting station. Beelzebub, get the lights again, would you? The fluorescents totally kill my vibe."

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"On it!" Debbie said, skipping away to the side of the sanctuary.

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Father started towards his pedestal. I quickly scurried up next to him.

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"Father, I need to talk to you."

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"We'll have plenty of time to talk after the ceremony, bubs."

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"I don't want to wear Debbie's old robes."

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"Nonsense!" he boomed. "They're very special. You know, Debbie spoke to Satan-"

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"I know that! Everybody knows that!"

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"This is heavy," Debbie panted, dropping a crate twice her size at Father's feet.

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"Thank you, Debbie-dear." He ruffled her hair. "Upper body strength is very useful for crawling out of the depths of Hell."

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"Huh?" She cocked her head, but Father was already pushing us away. 

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"Get the lights, Beelzebub. Hurry. I can already feel the fluorescents sapping away at my everlasting youth."

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"Father-"

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"My youth, Beelzebub!"

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"Beelzebub, his youth!" Debbie whispered, frantically.

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Head spinning with all the words trapped inside my brain, I sped over to the back of the sanctuary and absently flicked my hand over the switches.

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Darkness fell again. But the clouds must've shifted because sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows now, lighting the room in soft rainbows. A gentle breeze circled the room, making my skin prickle. 

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At the pedestal, Father assumed his propheting stance- casual elbows, slightly bent at the knees, eyes gazing off into the inevitable doom of a billion eternities, mild jazz hands. In a commanding voice, he began the sermon. "Every morning, we wake up alone. And every night, we enter the world of dreams and nightmares alone. But what happens in between? Why do we find ourselves drawn in to people, to families, to completely legitimate religious organizations with handsome and confident spiritual leaders? Is it an instinctive need for warmth and protection? Or is it something deeper? Are we looking for those who would guide us? Are we seeking to destroy those who would set us apart? When our enemies burn, we rejoice. When our friends burn, we weep. But perhaps we should refrain from drawing these lines. Instead, we can remember when our enemy gave us those really sick front row tickets to Alicia Keyes for Christmas. Or when our friend microwaved a messy burrito and didn't clean the box after. If we're pulled too far into the depths of black and white, we will drown in it. We must learn to live in the uncomfortable gray. So how do we do that? How do we win this balancing act? When we wake up in the morning and ask ourselves, to be evil or not to be evil, how shall we answer?"

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Father brought a hand up to his mouth and hissed out from behind it: "And then you say, 'how shall we answer, Father?'"

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"How shall we answer, Father?" Debbie and I echoed.

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"The answer is..." He raised an emphatic finger. "Be a little evil! Help Grandma cross the street. Then steal her wallet. Buy children ice cream. But make it pistachio. Release a box full of doves..."

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He removed the box's lid. A dozen doves flew out, beaks pointed to the stars, white wings spread wide and flapping like beautiful ghosts. Debbie and I both gasped, awed by their beauty. I realized a second too late where the gentle breeze I'd felt earlier was coming from. I realized right as the dozen stunning, pure white doves reached the ceiling and flapped into the whirring blades of the ceiling fan. Feathers and blood showered down upon us.

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Father's smile snapped into a frown. "You turned on the fan when you were supposed to just turn off the light, Beatrice! Now our evil balance is all thrown off!"

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"Sorry!" My voice cracked. I scooped up a few fallen dove feet and dumped them into the trash. "There. I did minor good to counteract it."

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Father pulled at his hair. "Releasing the doves into the fan was a minor good! They pooped all over a funeral this morning. They were supposed to die a more gruesome death tonight!"

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I felt a hard thomp on my arm. Before I had time to say 'Ow', Debbie had raised her fist and punched me again. "There. Two minor evils to balance. Sorry, Bea."

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"Thank you, Debbie," Father sighed. "I can always count on you. I know you won't let me down tonight. Now why don't you girls clear out so I can continue prepping. The lumber guy should be getting in any minute..."

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This time, I didn't wait for his attention. "What about my robes, Father?"

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"Your... robes?"

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"Are they in your closet? Are they in the crafts room? Are they supposed to be a surprise? It's just, I need to change soon and all I have right now are Debbie's."

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He blinked, genuine confusion flooding his face. There was a frenzied little pecking at my gut, like a nervous chicken had just moved in. "My robes, Dad. Where are my robes? My birthday robes. With the off-white color and the... the red trim."

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His eyebrows scrunched up. He pursed his lips. My heart wasn't beating. It was suspended in time.

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And then, he held up an emphatic finger. "Oh yes!"

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I blew out a sigh.

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"I forgot! But Debbie's robes should be more than satisfactory!"

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"Yeah, see, I told you, Bea!" Debbie said, wrapping an arm around the shoulder she'd just punched. "I got his approval first. I'm a good big sis."

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"You are a good big sis, Debbie darling. You should feel lucky to wear those robes, Beezlebub. They'll be very special tonight, I'm sure."

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My arm pounded. My head pulsed. Anger shot through me and when I opened my mouth, words fell out like flames. "Listen to me! Just listen to me! It's my birthday! And I don't want to wear Debbie's robes! I don't even want to be her sister! And I don't care if her mother is paying us $10,000 a month, I don't want to be anywhere near Debbie!"

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"Bea," Debbie cried.

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I pushed her off of me. "Don't follow me. You know, for someone who's so good at everything, all you ever do is make things worse worse for me."

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Before Father could lecture me, before Debbie could say another one of her cheesy quotes, I burst out of the sanctuary, hot tears trailing down my face and smearing my stupid, imperfect makeup.

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I don't know why I went to Debbie's room. Maybe I was hoping to find something incriminating in there. A weird toe cheese collection. A Danny DeVito shrine tucked under the bed. Something. Anything. Instead, the room was as pristine as I could've imagined. The bed was neatly made, the creases of her standard-issue sheets somehow sharper and whiter than any set I'd seen before. The walls were painted a light, floral pink and, suspiciously, had the same metallic smell as the bloodletting rooms. The robes were neatly hung in the closet with fresh hems, not picked away over the years like my own. A string of candles hung in paper lanterns lining the ceiling. In anyone else's room, the monstrosity would've been a major fire hazard and burned down half the compound. But of course, because it was Debbie, even the flames bent for her. That's when I decided I wasn't going to find anything incriminating in here. Instead, I wanted to destroy it.

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I immediately flew to her vanity. It was the same as mine but the stupid Kornsjö (the cult purchased all their furniture standard-issue from Ikea) had no speckled remnants of eyeliner on its surface. No water stains. No mistakes. With a cry, I swept my hand out at the jars of neatly-labeled goat's blood and rooster spleen. I knocked them to the ground, where they shattered with a satisfying sound like the high-pitched shrieks of children. Blood pooled in a thick, congealed puddle at my feet.

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"She was right! Goat's blood doesn't drip!" I sobbed, the realization igniting an even hotter flame within me.

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I moved to Debbie's CD player, nestled on top of her bureau. I threw it to the ground. I stomped on it. Screams of the Damned began playing and I dug my foot into the plastic until the screams became mangled and the CD cracked.

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I moved to her art corner. I tossed all her glitter onto her bed. I threw paint at the walls, watching the colors mix into an ugly mud brown. I mixed up the order of her color-coded card stock. I ripped scissors in half. I tore open the drawers of her dresser and tossed her clothes to the ground in a heap. I turned all her socks inside out. I pulled the zippers of all her robes until they stuck. I rubbed my oily fingers all over her mirror, then dipped my fingers in the pool of goat's blood at my feet and defaced the glass some more. I saw myself in the reflection. I was barely recognizable, red-faced with blood eyeliner tears streaking down my face. I briefly wondered how many acts of minor good I'd need to do to counteract this mess. And then I realized I didn't care. If I was evil, I was going all the way.

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I yanked open the drawer of her vanity, hoping to find some lipsticks to chop in half. Instead, my eyes fell on a folded-up note. The paper was creased in several different places, as if it had been opened and folded again many times. I caught a glimpse of a few words pencilled in on the bottom:

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From Steve.

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A smile cracked across my face. Perfect. I snatched the letter and sank against the wall to read it, devouring each word like it was my last meal.

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To Delizabeth,

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Hello. I wanted to start this letter off with 'Yo', but I think letters are supposed to be all formal and shit so I didn't want to kill the letter vibe by hitting it right away with a yo, ya know? That's also why I called you Delizabeth. That's, like, the long way of saying Debbie right?

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Anyway, we're breaking up. It's not you, it's me. Wait. No. I meant it's not me, it's you. Damn, I should've used a pencil instead. Can I erase ink? I don't know why I keep writing everything instead of just thinking my thoughts. This letter shit is like magic or something. I guess it's good I'm giving all this exposition in case someone else comes along and reads this. Wait, ok, maybe I should write this all formal like they taught us in school. Let me find a template or something. 

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Introduction: The dictionary defines "breaking up" as two people who once loved each other not loving each other anymore (probably, idk, Father burned all the dictionaries last year when people started looking up 'con artist', remember?). In this essay I will talk about us breaking up because you are annoying, you are not smart, and you are going to be dead soon probably.

Body paragraph 1: In this paragraph, I will talk about how you are annoying. You are annoying because you are always saying annoying things like "Are you ever afraid of death, Steve? I think I'm really scared of it" and "Sometimes I think about how my dad left us and it makes me really sad, Steve". These things are not about monster trucks or killing small animals, so they are annoying to me.

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Body paragraph 2: In this paragraph, I will talk about how you are not smart. You always say that you are worried nobody likes you. This is not smart because it is true. If you were smart, you would know this and not need to ask. You always say weird things and everybody thinks it's weird that your robes are so crisp. They're, like, weirdly crisp, you know? Like, weirdly crisp. Also, you are not smart because you spend a lot of nights in the bloodletting room crying and everybody knows the bloodletting room is for bloodletting. So that is stupid.

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Body paragraph 3: In this paragraph, I will talk about how you are going to be dead soon probably. You are going to be dead soon probably. And I don't think my mom will let me date dead people.

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Conclusion: In this essay, I talked about us breaking up. Also, if your bedazzled scepter gets stolen, it wasn't me.

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From,

Steve

 

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By the time I had finished, I was sitting on the ground. The sounds of shattering glass and tearing zippers were like dull echoes in my ears. I blinked. I blinked again. I tried to imagine the moment Debbie got this letter from Steve. She probably ran to her bed, smiling, plunked down stomach first, kicking her legs in the air as she opened it. I imagined the smile fading from her lips, dripping down her face like the eyeliner, which fell in thick splotches on the paper.

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My eyes fell on one of the splotches, just next to the sentence about Debbie crying in the bloodletting room every night. No wonder she'd seen me there. She wasn't spying. It was her spot too.

​

I felt something cool on my leg. When I looked down, I realized the puddle of goat's blood had trickled across the floor, seeping into the hem of my pajamas. I'd need to change my clothes before the ceremony. I thought of Debbie's robes, neatly folded in their pink box on my bed.

​

 

When I returned to the sanctuary, the cult was already gathered. They stood in the center of the dark room. When I walked in, their heads all snapped over to me. It wasn't the shining moment I always thought it would be. Actually, it was kind of creepy.

I managed a small, awkward wave as I scanned the crowd, searching for a head of blonde curls, wondering why Debbie hadn't already commented on how good her robes looked. Then I realized the cult wasn't just standing in a circle. They were standing in a circle around something. A towering, wooden stake. And tied to the top, whistling gleefully, was Debbie.

​

"Happy birthday, Beatrice!" Father boomed, stepping through the sea of cultists, arms raised.

​

The cult echoed, monotone: "Happy birthday."

​

"Do you like your present?" Father asked. He nodded up at the stake.

​

"I'm getting sacrificed!" Debbie beamed, kicking her legs joyfully in the air. "Isn't it great?"

​

I blinked at the two of them, for once having all the silence in the world to fill, but not a single word to speak.

​

Father stepped towards me, long sleeves trailing on the ground. "I know you've had a hard time adjusting to life with a stepsister. So, I figured we could either get you a therapist, or we could just burn Debbie at the stake. The latter was cheaper."

​

"But..." I stuttered. "But isn't this, like, a major evil?"

​

"Yes, but we've been reducing, reusing, and recycling for three months now so I think we've earned it. Eh?"

​

He nodded at the crowd and the cult chirped agreeably. I caught a glimpse of my stepmother dabbing at her eyes with the sleeve of her robes. She wasn't looking at Debbie, her special girl.

​

I swallowed. Father threw an arm around my neck and noogied my head. "Look at my Beelzebub! Too overjoyed to speak!"

​

The cult laughed in monotone.

​

"Come on, kid. You can light the first flame."

​

I blinked. "I don't... I don't have any matches."

​

"Check your pockets, Bea!" Debbie shouted from the stake. She added with a whisper, as if it were a secret just between us, "Remember your special gift?"

​

I fumbled in the pockets of the robes and pulled out a small book of matches. My hand shook as I opened the thin, cardboard flap. And when I saw what was inside, my heart sank into my stomach.

​

There were three rows of matches- small, wooden sticks, mostly unremarkable. Except that each one had words written on it. Tiny, colorful, looping letters. Debbie's handwriting. I brought the matchbox closer to my face to read them."Can't see the sun if you're looking down!", "Try your best and leave the rest!", "Always slice the jugular :-)". 

​

Father clapped his hands in my face. "Well, come on. We've got stepsisters to burn and Devil's food cake to eat. Don't we all want to eat Devil's food cake?" Father asked, turning to the cult.

​

"Mm, Devil's food," the cult echoed. "We love Devil's food."

​

I swallowed and plucked a match from the box. I took a few slow steps to the base of the stake.

​

With the cult behind us, I felt like Debbie and I were back in my room again, two sisters talking alone. I looked up at her. "Are you... are you ok with this?"

​

"Yep! I was really scared at first because, like, death and whatever. But Father says it won't hurt more than a burn from my curling iron. Plus I want to make things right. You said I always mess things up, so I figure I've gotta do a lot of major goods to make up for it."

​

My eyes fell to her hand, which was tied to the side of her body with the ropes. But the palm was turned out to me and I could see the scrawling jelly ink letters she'd written there this morning, Sisters are for helping each other even when we don't know we need it.

​

I knew what I had to do. I dropped the matches. I raised my arms, shook my body, and cried out: "Oh, boy! I'm talking to Satan!"

 

There was a collective gasp.

​

"Tell him I said 'hi'!" Debbie called.

​

"Debbie says 'hi'," I muttered. 

​

Father rushed to my side and grabbed my shoulders, eyes shining with pride. "That's it, Beelzebub. Keep going. What's he saying?"

​

"Uh..." I continued shaking my body. "Satan says... don't sacrifice Debbie! She's too cool for Hell's balmy climate!"

​

The cult waited for Father's signal to erupt in confused whispers. He leaned down, lowering his voice. "But, Satan, it's been such a drag sorting papers and plastics. The people have earned a sacrifice."

​

I smiled. "And a sacrifice they'll get."

​

 

An hour later, Debbie and I stood hand in hand in the glowing firelight, watching Steve the ex-boyfriend thrash at the stake.

"This feels, like, cathartic," Debbie said, as a flame licked his foot. "Thanks, Bea."

​

I squeezed her hand. "Maybe you can teach me how to bedazzle a scepter sometime."

​

Debbie's eyes widened. "But you hate arts and crafts!"

​

"Sisters are for helping each other even when we don't know we need it." I smirked. "And I think my art skills might need it."

​

Steve's thrashing body glowed orange in the reflection of Debbie's eyes. She nodded thoughtfully, then melted into a grin. "Let's start with how to sew a red trim."